Blood ties and wolf packs
by Naysa
Summary: The Starks are all back in Winterfell but their lives are not what they once were; and all the siblings seem equally fascinated by how even Jon and Arya's relationship has changed drastically.
1. Rickon

Rickon couldn't remember Arya back when everyone was alive and well in Winterfell. He couldn't remember if she smiled a lot, or if she was quiet or loud, or if she prefered to be alone or in someone's company. He couldn't remember the way she looked or the sound of her voice. He was too young to remember any of those things.

The only Arya he knew, was the one that came back from only the gods know where with a deadly glare and a sharp mind. The only Arya he now recognized was the one that spoke words in foreign languages, fought in a complicated dance and wandered New Winterfell with her massive direwolf, much like Shaggydog, at her heels. The only Arya he knew was the one that taught him how to fight properly, the one that explained him the importance of having a pack but also the perks of being on your own. The one that talked about control but understood his wildness like no one else did.

The Arya he knew was his dear sister, irreplaceable part of his pack. A leader and a brave fighter. He only listened to her.

When Sansa was struggling to keep him down, when no one knew how to make him calm down—it was Arya, and sometimes Bran, who could make him behave. It was only Arya who could calm Shaggydog down if he wasn't willing to do it. Because no one else understood, but his sister Arya. Sansa was his sister too, it was true, but the only members of his pack were Arya and her direwolf, Bran and his, Shaggydog and Osha.

Sansa would call him temperamental and smooth down his curl with a tender smile pulling her lips. She would tell him to try and be a good boy. She would be charming and kind to him but turn cold and unforgiving with those she didn't trust. She was a wolf in her own way, he knew, but he didn't understand her ways nor did he like them. And she did not understand his ways and he was sure she didn't like them.

It was just how things were.

Somehow he knew things were different. He wasn't sure how, he couldn't even remember how things were back then, when everyone was alive and well in Winterfell, but he just knew they were different back then. He just knew they were different now.

Rickon liked how things were now in New Winterfell, though. He liked living with a pack, he liked being safe, he liked the hunting trips with Arya and the talks with Bran. He even liked Sansa's constant worrying and her endless rules. He liked to have a place to call his own and a family to call his blood.

But he knew things were bound to fate and they kept changing, moving—ephemeral in a world where nothing lasted forever. He bore no power in such things and they escaped his control. However, change was no easier because he knew this things. So when things did change, it bothered him still. It pissed him off because he liked how things were and change was not welcomed.

It happened still. Things changed and it happened when Jon came back.

They didn't call him Jon Snow anymore. Rickon knew that used to be his name, back then. Not anymore, though. Now he was Jon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, born out of tragedy. He had tricked death and for it they feared him and loved him at the same time. People worshipped him like a God, like a creature that did not resemble mere mortals. Jon Targaryen was something else.

And still, Arya called him _family_. When news reached the North that Jon was coming back, Arya was the first one to know. She was the one to tell him and seemed eager for his arrival, but did not comment any further on the subject. She didn't frown or smile, her reactions were carefully played out, as if she was uncertain of how to feel.

That was the first thing that worried Rickon. Arya was like that when she first came back. Uncertain, guarded, careful. Like a well-trained mummer, she played out a character, a mask, and nothing went through it. To Rickon, that woman was a stranger. The Arya he knew later, his sister, was controlled but genuine. Her face never betrayed her but she showed herself nevertheless. A trained liar that would choose the truth.

But she was slowly drifting inside herself again, locking herself away, and Rickon was losing her. That was the first time he blamed Jon for something. Because he was pushing Arya away without even being there.

Then, he actually arrived. Jon Targaryen reached the North looking painfully familiar. A ghost that was always at the back of Rickon's mind, suddenly made flesh and bones, a breathing creature that talked and walked. He remembered how he felt the same when he first reunited with Sansa, how painful it was to watch her, how familiar but strange she seemed all the time. An illusion played out by an old memory to then become a living person that was truly there. And, still, they weren't the persons they resembled. They brought the pain without the comfort of winning back those who were once so dear. They brought longing, sadness, _rage._

That was the second time he blamed Jon. He blamed him for being a reminder of what was stolen from him, from his pack.

They were all out there, ready to greet him. Bran was smiling slightly, his eyes half-closed as if he was seeing too much of the world and wanted to block it all out, as if he wanted to focus solely on Jon for a while. Sansa looked happy, kind and delicate. The smile in her lips and the light in her eyes were the same whenever she looked at him, or at Bran, or at Arya. A loving gesture, a gesture she reserved for family. When he approached to kiss her hand in greeting, she grabbed his hand strongly, holding it tightly. Rickon knew what it meant without hearing Sansa saying the words he knew she was saying.

An apology and a welcome. _I'm sorry for the past and I'm glad to have you back. This is home, this is family._ Pure love and no judgement, the same treatment Arya received when she arrived. With just that gesture, which only lasted a second, Rickon knew Sansa and Jon didn't get along back then. Maybe they fought like Arya and Sansa did, maybe Sansa was unkind to him, maybe Jon was distant. But whatever it had happened, it was swiftly forgotten. Jon smiled, a smile that not only resembled Ned's smile but a smile that was incredibly similar to Arya's, and kissed Sansa's cheek instead of her hand.

He then moved to greet Arya and the world seemed to freeze. Arya tensed and Jon gulped and they stared at each other with an expression Rickon was unable to read. He had become quite good at it, at reading people. Arya had taught him. But both of them right now, faces so similar, were books written in a foreign language he couldn't even identify.

Their eyes travelled over each other's faces swiftly, quickly, as if trying to recognize details and memorize new ones. They weren't moving, still as statues, but they seemed to be frenetic, desperate to grasp something that kept sliding through their fingers. Arya took a deep breath and opened her mouth, but it was Jon who spoke.

"Arya," her name left his lips like a fervent prayer, the voice of a dying man who had just found the will to live. She exhaled in a gasp and there were suddenly tears in her eyes, spilling through her cheeks.

They both moved at the same time and hugged fiercely. His arms came around her frame and Rickon watched as Jon closed his eyes, his brow furrowed as if all the time Arya had spent out of his arms he'd been in pain. Her arms surrounded his neck and her face disappeared in the furs of his cloak. Her voice came muffled when they spoke at the same time.

"I have missed you so much."

There, in each other's arm, they finally relaxed. The air of urgency around them dissipated like a morning mist and Arya sighed happily, her muscles not so tense now. She moved to place her mouth close to his ear, and whispered things that were denied to everyone else's minds. There was something terribly intimate about the way they were behaving. About the way they whispered, about the way the held each other, about the way they reacted when their eyes crossed.

 _This isn't just brotherly love._

Rickon had a pack of his own, a pack Arya was part of. But seeing them, holding each other as if the world was ending tomorrow, he realized there was another pack too. A pack for only Arya and Jon, where no one else was invited, where no one else was welcomed.

He blamed Jon again. He blamed him for taking Arya away. He blamed him for stealing her heart, her attention, her love. And he blamed him a fourth time, for changing things when they were so good, so perfect. so fitting.

After what seemed an eternity, they parted but stayed closed, grasping each other's arms. Arya was smiling widely, warmly, a smile Rickon had seen once or twice, and Jon was looking at her with a fire in his eyes that could melt all the snow and ice of the north. Then Arya's smiled burned brighter and she turned.

"Oh, Jon, look," she said, guiding him to Rickon. Arya let go of one of Jon's arms and placed hers around Rickon's shoulder. "Look how much baby Rickon has grown."

Her words held love, her words held warmth. But above all, her words held pride. Rickon took a deep breath and looked at his sister just as she turned to look at him. He saw it. She was proud of him, like a mother would be of a son. She was happy with Jon here, happier than he had ever seen her. She was at peace, comfortable and _free_. She was Arya, unrestricted and true. Not a faceless men, not a mummer, not a liar.

She was _complete._

Rickon turned now to look at Jon and he heard him say something about how much he looked like Robb. He saw the pain in Jon's eyes. The longing, the sadness, the rage. _He sees someone else too. He sees someone they took from him too._

And Rickon understood and all the blame went away. Jon was no foreigner. Jon was no stranger. Jon was no dragon.

Jon was a wolf. Jon was family. Jon was a part of his pack. Because they shared more than just blood. Because he didn't take Arya away, but brought her true self back. Like if a piece of her was missing until he returned and brought it with him. Because he understood and felt the same, because he belonged.

So Rickon smiled, and willed Shaggydog with his mind to welcome Ghost into the pack, and then said, "Welcome back to Winterfell, brother."

* * *

 **A/N** : I haven't written in a long time, so I feel kind of rusty. I haven't published anything of mine, or shown any of my writings to anyone, in an even longer time so... yeah, kind of nervous. So, any constructive criticism is very much welcomed. Any thought, any comment, any kind of feedback. I would really appreciate it.

Thank you _so_ much for reading!


	2. Sansa

It was odd to have them there—Sansa mused constantly, staring at each one of them when she saw them pass through the halls of Winterfell—and it was odd, and strange, and peculiar; and frightening. It was definitely frightening to have them _all_ there.

Bran with his quiet attitude, his soft smile and his knowing eyes. With an aura of solitude around him even when he was surrounded by people, an aura of wisdom that didn't agree with his age, an aura of power that seemed out of place in such a sweet face.

Arya with her graceful moves, her sharp stare and her careful reactions. With an air of danger that surrounded her at all times, an air of secrecy that clinged to her soul, an air of calmness that seemed so out of place on someone who was once so loud, so carefree, so spontaneous.

Rickon with his loud laugh, his fierce temper and his impatient tendencies. With a sense of reckless energy that ran through his veins, a sense of rage and anger that tainted his moods, a sense of irrational fear that hid in his every move.

And now Jon. Jon with his solemn mannerism, his guarded stance and his melancholic smile. With an aura of authority that made him look imposing, an air of spectrality that clouded his eyes as if the dead were just behind his eyelids, a sense of raw power that seemed to come with everything that was touched by fire.

All and each one of them dark, darker and darker. None of them who they used to be, just a bunch of bodies that kept the ghosts that were now their souls bound to Winterfell. Always carrying an invisible weight that kept dragging them down.

The worst part, though, was that said all wasn't even complete. Because father wasn't there, mother wasn't there, Robb wasn't there. All three of them gone and lost forever. Not even their ghosts wandering around, not even their bones buried in the crypts. Gone as if they were never truly there.

 _We are all here and at the same time we are not._

Sansa wondered in silence if they would ever come back. She didn't know but all of them together would find out, surely. All of them together had to find out or she was going to drown and suffocate in pain. And she had not come all this way to get lost, to wither like a leaf in the autumn whose only path was to fall to the dirt and root in the ground.

No, they would come back. All and each one of them. _Winter is here but the Starks have always endured winter. And now we are all together._ She remembered something she heard Arya say a few days past to Rickon:

" _Father used to say the lone wolf dies but the pack survives._ "

They were a pack now and they would survive. They had survived as lone wolves, there was no doubt they would survive as a pack. She just didn't know how long it would take them to come back.

Luckily for her, it seemed it wouldn't take _too_ long.

The first sign of her family coming back came a particularly warm morning, a few days after Jon's arrival.

She was thoughtfully working in a new dress, the whole process of working with a needle and a thread so calming and familiar that she couldn't avoid coming back to it as often as her duties allowed her; when she heard the surprised grunt and the breathless laughter.

There was something about the way the laughter carried out through the air and into her bedroom window that made her heart ache, like a distant and specific memory she couldn't distinctly select playing out from the farthest part of her mind. A warm laugh, wild and contagious, dancing in the air like snowflakes in a soft breeze.

Sansa left the needle and the thread of her sewing on the table, unsteady feet leading her to the open window and her breath forming fogs in the still chilly air. Leaning over the sill, she looked outside at the courtyard and a smile wrecked through her face when she caught sight of what was happening down there.

Arya was still laughing, her head thrown back in a careless manner that now seemed foreign in such a carefully controlled woman. Rickon, laughing too—loud, deep, wolfish laughter mingling with Arya's—was laying on one of the stone benches, his eyes half-closed. And Jon was in the middle of them both, standing perfectly still; snow already melting dripping from the right side of his face and hair, and even from a distance Sansa could tell he was fighting back a smile.

Then she saw how—taking advantage of both Rickon's and Arya's distraction—he took a handful of snow from the floor and hurriedly shaped it like a ball. It hit Arya directly in the neck, a part of it falling insider her clothes, and the laughter turned to a shriek so ladylike Rickon laughed even louder, falling from the bench on top of Shaggydog after losing his balance.

Without thinking twice, Sansa turned around and fled out of the room, her steps loudly resonating in the stonewalls. By the time she reached the courtyard, snowballs were flying everywhere from every direction. At some point, Bran and the wolves had joined them. Bran sitting in his wheelchair, Hodor shaping snowball after snowball and passing them to him. The wolves running around, catching the snowballs mid air with bared teeth, shaking their heads as the snow melted in their mouths.

Sansa stepped forward, wanting to join the fun but feeling oddly cautious, fearful they would stop playing once they saw her. The minute she stepped into the firing line a snowball hit the left side of her face and the sudden cold froze her, her mouth opening in a perfectly shaped 'o'.

Silence took the air and everybody stopped moving for a moment, all of them seeming careful and uncertain of how to react. Sansa inhaled deeply and decided to evoke the past a little bit more and; with a whiny, childlike and distinctly girly voice, she cried:

"Arya! My hair!" she quickly turned to look at her sister, fake horror and annoyance on her face. Arya blinked several times, as if trying to wipe the image of the memory out of her eyes and see the reality in front of her. They both smiled wickedly at the same time.

"Ugh, Sansa, you are _such_ a lady!" Arya whined too, imitating Sansa's tone in childish mockery and immediately threw another snowball in her direction. Sansa ducked and collected snow from the floor, ready to return the blow.

The fighting began anew with even more energy and, since they didn't even have enough material to begin with, it wasn't long until they started throwing mud instead of snow. Sansa's dress was completely ruined and her hair felt heavier because of all the mud in it but, for once, she couldn't care less. She was breathless and happy, her face aching for smiling so widely. Truly, it was a wonder no mud had gotten into her mouth.

Jon's hair was covered with mud completely, not a single strand had escaped the dirt. Arya had mud all over her legs, but none even remotely closely to her face; she was too damn fast and mud flew slower than snow. Rickon was covered in mud from head to toe, but partly because he decided it would be a good idea to throw himself in the middle of the mud and roll around, making Jon fall in the process. And Bran was pristine, just a few drops of mud here and there, since Hodor had been his human shield the whole time.

The wolves had disappeared, probably heading to the hot springs to clean themselves and soon the human part of the family dispersed to do the same.

Sansa smiled during the rest of the day, feeling lightheaded and hopeful. Just like when they were all children. Carefree, simple; life was full of possibilities.

* * *

The happy bubble exploded later the next day. The sun was hiding, painting the sky in soft pinks, angry reds and cheerful oranges. making the northern sky come alive beautifully; but Sansa had no time for such things. A few letters had just arrived and the news in them made her sigh in sympathy.

They were marriage proposals for Arya. A _lot_ of marriage proposals for Arya. From Edric Dayne of Starfall to Brandon Tallhart of Torrhen's Square. A great number of houses wanted to form an alliance with House Stark, the _new_ House Stark. Specially now that they were related to the Royal Family through Jon. Royal Family that owned _dragons_. Plus, the news of Arya looking like Lyanna Stark reborn, the woman whose beauty had torn a kingdom apart, only attracted more people; like bees to the honey. Of course, Arya thought them all fools. Her sister wasn't worried about beauty and wouldn't fall for cute words and poetics comparisons about her beauty and nature.

Arya wanted something more.

 _Which is why I need to discuss this with her before doing anything else. She'll take offense if I don't._

With a sigh of sympathy for herself—Arya could be painfully stubborn when it came to marriages—she carefully folded the letters and tuck them all together in one of the drawers of her desk. She stood up, dusted off her dress and walked towards the courtyard, which was the place her sister frequented the most.

She didn't find her there, finding Rickon instead beating some poor boy from House Lightfood, who'd come to Winterfell to meet the family and casually was Rickon's same age. The poor boy didn't stand a chance against her youngest brother, not after the savages from Skagos and not after his training under Arya's careful eyes, but he was trying still, knowing Rickon despised weakness and people who gave up. The poor boy had travelled to befriend Rickon probably believing him to be a frightened and harmless boy.

She shook her head and called to him. "Rickon, have you seen Arya? I need to speak with her"

Rickon didn't miss a beat, blocking the other boy's poor attempts of an offensive. "What for?"

Sansa rolled her eyes. _Always so protective of her._ "I need to ask her opinion about some letters. Important stuff, you know."

Rickon nodded and turned his head to flash her a brief smile before turning back to his opponent. Or training dummy, more accurately. "She's in the Godswood."

"Thank you, brother." She turned away but turned back quickly. "And don't hurt that poor boy!"

As she was leaving she could hear Rickon claiming that there was no other way the boy would learn and that he was, actually, being kind. Sansa just rolled her eyes and tried to hide her smile as she walked through the edge of the courtyard towards the Godswood. The sun was hiding quickly and the cold air was rising. She hid her hands in the fur of her dress and walked faster.

She reached the trees and headed to the Heart Tree when Arya suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Her skin was flushed, her breath accelerated, her pupils dilated. Sansa stopped abruptly, just like Arya did and blinked in disbelief. Arya never looked so worked up.

"Sister, is everything okay?" Sansa asked, truly worried, but just as quickly as Arya had showed up, her bewildered behavior disappeared, as if it had never been there. All of a sudden, she looked fresh, calm, in control. Her eyes had regained their normal quality and the blush in her cheeks seemed to be only because of the cold. Her breathing was as calm as still water.

"Of course. Why wouldn't it be?" her voice was normal, light, relaxed. But there was something that remained odd. Her lips were swollen, redder than usual, slightly bruised.

 _She's been kissing someone._ Sansa realized immediately and looked away in a desperate attempt to keep her sister from seeing the surprise in her eyes. Luckily for her, Arya might have seemed in control, but she was still too distracted to notice the slight movement and just smiled slightly.

"Were you looking for me?"

"Yes," Sansa knew better than to lie. "I—"

She was interrupted by a second person showing up just as abruptly as her sister had. Jon came out of the trees looking agitated and slightly confused. He raised his eyebrows when he saw them and tried to smile normally. _Oh, Arya is a much better liar,_ Sansa thought, almost amused. Just one look at Jon's face and Sansa immediately knew who Arya had been kissing.

 _I cannot believe this._

Arya bit her lip when she saw Jon, her eyes drifting to him for just a second, his eyes answering as if her stare was an irresistible call. And Sansa noticed the whole thing.

"I needed your opinion about some letters but, it's getting late, we should do it tomorrow. Right now, I would like to spend some time in the Godswood by myself. Just a moment of peace." The words slipped from her lips easily, none of them a lie. It was getting late and, after what she had just realized, she wanted some time to think. _I cannot believe this._

Arya nodded. "Of course, I'll see you at supper." One last smile and Arya was walking away, her legs carrying her towards the castle a little bit faster than necessary.

Sansa turned to look at Jon who was staring at Arya walking away with an odd glint in his eyes. Suddenly, he noticed Sansa's stare on him and turned warily.

"What?" he asked, almost defensively.

Sansa resisted the urge to laugh. "Nothing."

They stayed a few more seconds there. Jon looking confused still and Sansa trying not to laugh. Eventually they both nodded and walked in opposite directions.

 _Oh, I cannot believe this! This changes everything_. As much as she tried, the smile wouldn't leave her face.

Three days later, at a feast in honor of House Reed, who was visiting Winterfell—no surprise, they visited as often as they could—, Sansa stared at Arya and Jon, talking and laughing with all the ease in the world.

She smiled and turned to Bran. "Do you think we should have Arya and Jon get married? Like aunt Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar but with a much, much happier ending! The ceremony would be at the Godswood, of course, and Arya could wear winter roses in her hair, and Jon could wear the Targaryen colors but with a direwolf instead of a three-headed dragon. Oh, it could be just like the songs!"

Bran looked at her with an amused glint in his eyes, threw his head back and laughed and laughed and laughed. Obviously, he knew exactly why she had come up with that idea all of a sudden. Sansa pressed her lips together, trying not to follow him in his laughter and turned to look at Arya and Jon again, sharing their secret smiles.

Sansa more than anybody knew that life was not a song. That, however, didn't mean she wasn't going to try to make it as beautiful as one. She was going to goddamn try because if she didn't, who was going to?

Life was not a song. But it could. _Oh, it could._

* * *

 **A/N:** I have the feeling some of you might think: "Oh, you are portraying Sansa as if she still believes in song and she's not that girl anymore!" And I know, people, I know. But you know what's the beauty of this? She knows that but she's still willing to try and be happy and I just think that's precious. Because she deserves it. A happy life to go along a happy song.

Please, tell me your opinion about this second chapter! Your reviews make my day brighter. Thank you for reading!


	3. Bran

The darkness surrounded him, cradled him, and Bran took deep breaths in complete peace. Silence kept him company and he supported his head against the stone. The crypts were so peaceful, so calm. He enjoyed spending time down there, his soul mingling with those of the past, his mind standing still, standing eternal.

Down there time was no more. He floated in no light, no rush. A world of no judgement and no pressure, he was both powerless and powerful in the darkness. The ties keeping him in earth gone, his useless legs feeling weightless. He was free. To fly, to dream, to breath.

The crypts were his safe haven. A haven he shared with his blood, his ancestors; and they kept silence for him, they shared their freedom with him.

The faintest feel of warmth alerted him of the presence of another living person. He didn't feel alarmed, he knew only one living person that could be so silent, that could walk in the shadows as if it were her rightful place.

Arya sat alongside him in the tomb and rested her head against the stone of their father's statue.

"How did you get here, brother?" she asked quietly. Bran smiled.

"Flying."

He didn't see her smile, but he felt it. Her hand found his and he caressed her fingers soothingly. She was troubled, something was clouding her heart and he felt sorry; her heart had been so light lately, so bright.

"What is wrong?" he asked though he knew she wouldn't answer so easily.

"Nothing is wrong, brother. Why do you ask?"

"You come to the shadows again, sister. The shadows shelter you when you are feeling broken."

He heard her take a swift breath, her heart fluttered for just a second before she pulled it under her command, willing it to remain calm. He was fascinated by her self control, the power upon herself. Such discipline.

"Here, in the crypts, I feel like I'm sheltered against the living. I feel like the darkness understands me. It won't judge."

"I won't judge either."

"I'm sure you won't, brother. I heard you breathing down here, I could've walked away. There's a reason why I decided to go down anyway."

"You feel sheltered even with me here?"

"Yes."

The answer made him proud and he smile lovingly. Out of all his family, he felt like Arya understood what he had gone through the most. The secrecy, the magic, the blood. All their siblings had gone through terrible things, but only him and Arya had gone through power of similar natures.

"Is it hard to walk away from the Many Faced God?" he wasn't sure of her problem, of what troubled her, so he offered an option. Maybe her time with the Faceless Men was haunting her, maybe she needed shelter from the living because the dead had been by her side for so long she didn't know how to serve life anymore.

Apparently, it wasn't the right option.

"You don't walk away from the Many Faced God. It will get us all, in the end, and He'll always have me; I guess" her voice flowed easily when she spoke such dreadful words and he understood her feelings completely. The Gods, once they chose you, once they claimed you, they never truly let you go. "But death loses its grip. Life can too be a gift, and the God of Death knows my answer."

He turned his face to her with a questioning stare even though the darkness wouldn't let him see her, nor let her see him. She seemed to sense his question.

"Not today. If I feel Him too close, that's my answer. Not today."

"I see."

Silence swirled around them once more and Bran stared straight ahead. She was troubled still and he didn't exactly know what it was about, but she would tell him eventually; or share just the right amount of information. He was just being patient, like life had taught him to be.

"What do you think he would say? What do you believe he would think?" he could hear how her other hand was caressing the stone behind them and Bran knew what she meant. _Father._

There was something in the tone of her voice, in the way she asked her question, that told him it wasn't about obvious things. It wasn't about what father would think of them as a family, or of the way they were ruling, or of the way they had rebuilt Winterfell. It was about something else.

 _This is about Jon._

He blinked lazily, the movement making no difference in what he could see, and she waited quietly for his answer. Back then, back when they were children, she wouldn't have waited. She would've demanded her answer or lose interest and walk away. _She was so reckless back then._

The sister that was sitting at his side had too much discipline and confidence on her own abilities too lose control of the situation. Because he needed to admit that, she always had control of her situations. She was in control now and Bran had to mold to her rules to obtain the information he wanted. It was like a game of pushing the traits the other had acquired while being away. It felt right, it felt healthy. They were coming to terms with who they had become in the darkness and were pushing themselves to the light.

"I believe he would understand. I believe he would think us wise, strong. Our pack would make him smile."

Arya exhaled slowly, the air leaving her lungs taking the cloud off her heart on its way out. He felt her smile again-a small change in the air, in her energy; and he knew she was smiling.

"You always choose the right words."

Bran laughed. "It's a talent."

She squeezed his hand in what he took as a silent thank you and stood up.

"Do you need help going back up?"

He shook his head, even though he knew she couldn't see him. _Or maybe she can see in darkness._ The thought made him smile.

"Don't worry. I'll fly once I want to go up there."

Her laughter followed her out of the crypts and Bran closed his eyes again.

 _The crypts are such a peaceful place._

* * *

They were speaking in hushed voices, Arya and Jon.

Bran was watching them through the eyes of one of the crows that lived in the Broken Tower, studying their behavior. Arya was smiling and Jon kept caressing his nose against hers.

Suddenly, Arya pushed him hastily and sat on the stone instead of his lap. Jon looked amused. Shaggydog trotted into the godswood, followed closely by Rickon. Bran wanted to laugh; his brother was no fool and had commanded his direwolf to go first to alert them of his presence.

 _They are still not comfortable about telling us. They keep their relationship a secret still, but at least now they know the true nature of their feelings._

Rickon sat alongside Arya and started telling her something, his hands gesturing wildly. Arya smiled at his brother and Bran smiled at the scene, his eyes drifting to Jon. He was looking at Arya lovingly, warmly.

Bran knew and understood many, many things; but Arya and Jon were somehow still a mystery. Every word, every gesture and every touch was part of a complicated dance he failed to understand completely. They gravitated around each other, pulling closer to then push away, innocent smiles and heated stares; they denied themselves the truth just to play a little bit longer. They were caught up in the chase, both of them wolves always eager to enjoy a good hunt.

Bran knew where it would end, to what it would lead them to; and judging by Arya's question earlier, she knew too. Truth be told, their hearts had never truly parted from each other and now that they were back together, they would not deny themselves what the other wanted. _Such luck, to desire the same thing._ Bran knew this as he knew many things.

Arya would lose her patience first and Jon would comply because, truly, when hasn't he when it comes to her? The game would change slightly but, eventually, it would never end. It was set in stone, when it came to those two. For their souls to seek out the other and for their hearts to bend to the other's will. _To belong and to own is such a curious thing._ An eternal flame, forever lasting.

Bran marvelled at the strings of life and smiled when he heard Arya's laugh from afar. He didn't need to look to know it was Jon who had made her laugh in such a happy, carefree way. Nowadays it was only Jon who brought the old Arya back. The one that smiled more often, the one that still held innocence. Sometimes he thought Arya hid her old self on purpose, to hold her as a gift for Jon and only Jon. To have her as a glimpse of what they used to be, a contrast of what they now were and a promise of what they'd forever be.

Because there was no other word to describe them but soulmates, bound so strongly that the thought of them apart was unthinkable, improbable. Bran knew this as he knew many things. So he smiled and he let them be, and he prayed for them to always have each other and for the world to treat them kindly. After so much pain, they all deserved a little happiness.

He felt the bird's hunger and softly slipped out of its mind to let him feed alone. His attention drifted back to Sansa who was working on a new dress beside him in his room. They did this often, he warged somewhere to run or to fly, and Sansa worked with her needle or went through some letters. They shared the silence.

"Sister," he called to her and she hummed to let him know she was listening but didn't raise her eyes from her work. "I was thinking that Rickon could give her away."

Sansa raised her eyes, confused. "Give who away?"

"Arya, of course. On her wedding with Jon."

Sansa laughed so much her face turned as red as her hair.

* * *

 **A/N:** Yes, I am obsessed with Bran and Sansa planning the wedding.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! And, please, please, please; tell me what you think about it! And, by the way, thank you so muchfor every single comment you've left in my works and every single word of support. I love you all and you make my day so bright and you make me so happy everytime you read what I write. So a big thank you to all of you.


	4. Jon

Sansa had organized a ball. A huge, ostentatious ball with three courses of food, singers, musicians and everything imaginable that could be required in an affair such as a ball. And she had invited the whole of Westeros too, it seemed. All kinds of people and all kinds of sigils paraded through the courtyard of Winterfell as the people arrived the day before.

It was beyond Jon why people would travel days, even months, just to go to a goddamn ball. But there was no way of mistaking it; there were sigils from Dorne, from the Stormlands, the Riverlands, the Crownlands, the Westerlands, from _everywhere_. It seemed like everyone was there, except for the Royal Family which was odd.

The reason to the ball seemed to be nonexistent. Apparently, Sansa just felt like it and, judging by the look on Bran's face, he had felt like it too. Which was, again, odd. The whole thing was odd.

But the fact remained. There was a _ball_ , there were hundreds of guests and just… people. A lot of people.

"I don't like this," Rickon leaned closer to Jon. They were seated in the main table, next to Bran, as they looked at the people mingling and chatting and doing everything _but_ dancing. "I don't _trust_ this. And where the hell is Arya?"

Jon had been wondering the same ever since this thing had started. There was no sign of Arya, no sign of Sansa; both of them completely absent. _If she organized this whole thing, she could at least show up._

"I don't know," _You know nothing_ , Jon Snow, Ygritte's voice came unbidden and Jon sighed, feeling defeated. "I have no idea. What is this, anyway? Aren't balls supposed to be about dancing?"

"Is a proposal ball."

Both Rickon and Jon snapped their heads in Bran's direction when he spoke. "A proposal ball? What the hell is that?" Rickon's patience was running thin, not that Jon could blame him. It was known that Rickon liked to move and do stuff, yet he remained seated and had behaved for the time being. Something in his eyes told Jon he wasn't going to comply with the _good behaved boy_ image for much longer.

"If a hard-to-manage amount of men or women present interest in the same person, the family organizes a _proposal ball_ where all the suitors show up and try to capture the attention of the desired lady or lord."

"Why are you smiling?" Jon asked suspiciously at Bran's expression.

"No reason. No reason at all."

"So Sansa is getting married soon." Rickon looked much more relaxed now that he knew what the whole thing was about and sipped his wine, and then made a face. He didn't like sweet drinks apparently and changed to a stronger wine.

"They are here for Arya as well" Bran said calmly.

The wine in Rickon's mouth was catapulted forward as the poor boy choked. Not that Jon was too pending on that. The comment had baffled him so much, he had squeezed the glass in his hand till it shattered. Now there were shreds of glass on his palm and hot blood dripping on the table.

A serving girl had approached quickly and was taking the broken glass away, cleaning the blood from his hand carefully.

"Thank you," he managed to murmur through clench teeth, his eyes fixed on Bran. He looked terribly amused. "Care to elaborate on that, dear brother."

He still called him brother. Rickon and him were brothers still in his eyes, as Sansa was his sister. The only one who he now referred to differently was Arya. He had changed the _little sister_ for _little wolf_ —not that she was little at all—and, in private, he called her _my love_ and sometimes he used slightly more inappropriate names. Always in private, of course.

"Sansa received a lot of letters last week with marriages proposals for Arya. A lot for herself too. She knew that talking to Arya would be futile, so she thought it better if she invited everyone here so Arya could meet them herself before passing on judgement. And, of course, she's scouting her possibilities too."

Jon was trembling. He wasn't sure if it was shock, or maybe panic, or perhaps rage. It felt like rage. It felt a _lot_ like rage.

"So you have done this without telling Arya at all?" Rickon said whilst he cleaned the wine from his mouth. Then, he barked his characteristic loud laugh and continued laughing for several minutes. "Oh," he managed to say through fits of laughter, "oh, poor Sansa must be dead right now. Arya killed her, I'm sure"

He would've found the whole thing amusing too if he could stop trembling. _They—they can't do this._ A feeling of hopelessness took hold of his heart, taking his breath away. _They cannot do this._ With trembling hands, he reached for his new cup filled with wine and drank its whole content in one gulp.

"Is that why Jon was forced to wear Targaryen colors, for once? To distinct him as the only royal present?" Rickon seemed even more amused now and Jon couldn't understand for the love of the Gods why he was so relaxed. _They are taking Arya away, you fool_ , he wanted to scream.

Bran smiled sheepishly. "Of course. It's not like he is a suitor." Jon straightened when he heard that, his curiosity peaked. "Right, Jon?"

"And what if I wanted to? Would you be horrified, brother?" he tried to smile to pass it on as a jape but his face wouldn't respond. He was too focused on holding the glass gently to avoid breaking this one as well.

"Politically, of course not. You are a prince, second heir to the throne."

Jon gulped, staring at his cup, and with his thumb and index finger he slowly rotated the glass, making the light play and reflect with the wine. "And personally?"

"Oh." Bran kept silent for a few seconds. Seconds where Jon's heart was clenched tightly and his breath was hitched in his throat. "Do you want to marry one of my sisters? Because I don't think I would mind if she wanted to marry you. After all, none of them is truly your sibling and I know exactly what kind of man you are. I actually trust you so I think—"

His voice was cut off by the sound of the doors opening and all the voices in the room faded away as the people stared at the two persons coming in.

Sansa and Arya were standing together. Sansa smiling charmingly and Arya with a blank expression that gave nothing away. They were both dressed magnificently and Arya was actually wearing a dress, under Sansa's insistence no doubt.

She looked like a winter breeze in a night sky. Her dark hair was fashioned in a complicated braid that somehow managed to still looked northern, covered in sparkling jewels that looked like starlight. She stood in a long, soft dress that covered her feet and brushed the floor, dancing around her legs as she moved, her arms covered in intricate lace, a single jeweled dagger strapped to her hips; probably the only weapon that Sansa allowed her to wear but Jon was sure she had more hidden under the layers and layers of that elegant, flowing skirt.

As soon as they both stepped in they were approached to be greeted with courteous words and gracious smiles.

A blonde boy, wearing the sigil of the Daynes of Starfall, approached Arya and took her hand. Jon was expecting people to approach and greet her but he was not expecting the smile that took over Arya's face and the warm way she greeted the man. _What the—_

"You didn't answer, Jon".

Jon reluctantly tore his eyes away from the scene to look at Bran. "Excuse me, what?"

"Do you want to marry one of my sisters?"

He stuttered. "I—", he looked in Arya's direction again. She was hugging him. His blood boiled. "I need to go." He stood up quickly and left the table in haste.

"Jon," Bran called as he was walking away. Jon turned, anxious, and raised his eyebrows waiting for Bran to speak. "If I'd said I had a problem with you marrying one of my sisters, would that have stopped you?"

 _He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows._ He could tell by the expression on his face and the glint in his eyes that it was an hypothetical question. _He's Bran so, obviously, he knows._

"Would that stop Arya?" he asked back.

"Of course not," answered Rickon for them, sipping more wine. At this rate, he would be drunk before the actual dinner started.

"Then you have my answer right there."

He turned to leave and felt Bran say at his back. "Good."

He moved quickly through the crowd of people, everyone making way for the Targaryen prince. Arya was still talking with the Lord of Starfall but now another Dayne had joined. This one was older with a look that spoke of trouble. Jon dreaded him more than the one that looked like a prince from the songs. Arya had a thing for trouble.

He was close enough to hear him introduce himself. "Gerold Dayne, my lady. They call me Darkstar." Gerold smiled, probably believing his smile to be seductive. Arya smiled politely in return but Jon could see the shadow of annoyance in her eyes.

With swift moves he placed himself next to Arya and glared coldly at the Daynes. "My lords, if you excuse me, I need to steal this she-wolf for a minute." His arm came to rest possessively across her shoulders, his hand grabbing hers to lead her away. Arya took a step closer to him, her back coming to rest against his chest. Jon knew what it meant. _Take me away from this fool before I snap at him._

Both men lifted their eyes, probably to scold at him, but the youngest one composed himself quickly once he saw the three-headed dragon on Jon's chest. "Of course, my prince."

Arya smiled to the boy, taking his hand and murmuring a swift _Excuse me_ before walking away with Jon. He huffed.

"Excuse me? What was that?" he whispered trying to keep hold of his own anger. He didn't understand why she was being so polite to the boy nor he understood his own feelings.

"Manners? You know, the ones Sansa is always trying to make me learn?"

"You didn't excuse yourself with _Darkstar_ " he announced the name mockingly and Arya snorted.

"Because I barely know him and I don't like him. I like Ned."

Jon's eyes widen and he felt himself growl. "You _like_ Ned? What the—?"

"I met him once, when I was travelling with the Brotherhood. He was kind to me, Jon. He was a friend." Jon opened his mouth to argue again but she snapped firmly: "He _is_ a friend."

He huffed, annoyed and angry. Frustration was coursing through his veins and he couldn't stop holding her to him possessively as they walked through the hall. "Well, your friend wants to marry you."

"Bad luck for him that I don't want to marry him."

He stopped walking abruptly, forcing her to stop as well. She turned to look at him and waited patiently for him to speak. "I don't want you to marry him."

"I won't."

"I don't want you to marry anyone."

She smiled like he was asking her the easiest thing in the world. "I won't."

He sighed and looked her in the eyes. It was something he did a lot.. He often looked at her, studying her features and her gestures—always amazed by the little signs that told that, deep down, she still was who she used to be. Always getting hypnotized by the beauty she had become.

 _She's not beautiful like Sansa_ , he mused looking at her then. _Wild and unruly, she's too much of a wolf to hold the docile beauty Sansa carries._ Arya's beauty was a sharp one, hard edges and lethal curves. A beauty that did not speak of innocence and kind words with a soft touch. It was a wild beauty that spoke of unbidden desires and maddening words with an addictive touch. As alluring as any beauty can be, and as tempting as anything unreachable can seem. Dangerous, forbidden, she seemed untouchable. Unobtainable.

But then she would smile at him. A loving smile, a happy smile, and it never failed to make him feel welcome, to make him feel like he belonged. She always had that talent, even when they were children. Specially when they were children. To make him feel home and accepted. To make him feel loved.

Arya smiled in that moment. A half-smile, a secret smile and he felt himself smile unconsciously in response. Oh, Gods, he was in love with her. There was music playing and he wasn't sure when had the music started. He could see Rickon running—because he couldn't call that dancing—around with some girl and a few other couples dancing cheerfully.

So he took Arya hands and asked. "Would you dance with me?"

"I'm supposed to be dancing with my suitors," she finished the sentence with an unladylike snort that would've made Sansa cringe, but lucky for both of them she was sitting at the main table next to Bran. He could feel their eyes on Arya and him.

He smiled widely. _Sneaky liars, the both of them._ "Exactly."

Arya arched an eyebrow but he didn't gave her time to reply as he led her to dance the cheerful, fast song. She followed gracefully, laughing along the way. The dancing might've seen innocent enough but it was a proposal ball after all. Now the world knew he wanted Arya and not in the way a brother would care for a sister. Now the world knew that Arya belonged with him.

Through the edge of his sight he could see Sansa and Bran staring at them with equal smiles of victory. Then, they looked at each other and clinked their glasses as if their grand secret complot had been a complete success.

 _Sneaky liars indeed._

* * *

 **A/N:** I'm not sure if there are balls and such in Westeros but I thought it could be fun?

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and, please, don't forget to leave a review.


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